


Your Love Is My Drug

by canistakahari



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Anal Sex, Begging, Fingerfucking, Fisting, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 02:47:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Kirk has a big dick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Love Is My Drug

**Author's Note:**

  * For [affectingly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/affectingly/gifts).



> I wanted to write porn. Amber lamented the lack of fics about Jim’s giant cock and how it might initially intimidate Bones. So, I wrote this. YES, THAT IS A GODDAMN KE$HA SONG AS A TITLE, I DON'T EVEN FUCKING CARE.

Jim Kirk has a big dick.   
  
McCoy is, on a fundamental level, completely aware of this fact. He’s come to realise after nearly a year and a half of friendship that nudity is an accepted occupational hazard when it comes to living with Jim.  
  
He’s seen the man in clothes and out of them; he’s given Jim his annual physical and treated wounds for him; on one notable occasion, Jim’s wheedling and the judicious application of alcohol had resulted in Jim stripping down to nothing at all, sprawling face-down on his bed, and McCoy straddling his ass to give him a (probably not very good) massage.   
  
But despite repeated visual confirmation of the decently impressive size of Jim Kirk’s flaccid penis, he still isn’t quite prepared for the width and length and sheer  _girth_  of it when it’s erect in McCoy’s hand, flushed red and beaded with drops of precome.   
  
He’s pretty sure they’re working up to penetrative sex.   
  
Jim’s expressed interest in moving the party south, McCoy has reciprocated that interest, and now Jim is crouched between his spread legs, hands propping him up on either side of McCoy’s hips while McCoy works his well-lubricated fist around Jim’s genuinely  _massive_  cock, stroking him fully erect while Jim’s head lists forward almost drunkenly and he worries his lower lip, breath stuttering in his lungs.   
  
“Jim,” rasps McCoy, anxiety building in the pit of his stomach. Jim groans, caught up in the fretful motions of McCoy’s fingers over his dick. “ _Jim_. I don’t know about this.”  
  
“Don’t know about what?” asks Jim. He inches forward, systematically crowding McCoy into the mattress. One broad, blunt-fingered hand catches McCoy under the thigh and folds his leg up against his chest, exposing McCoy’s hole and opening him up for a better angle of entry.   
  
“Don’t know—” McCoy cuts himself off with a strangled groan; Jim’s mouth latches onto his collarbone and sucks a throbbing mark. “ _Jim_.”  
  
“Don’t know about  _what_?” echoes Jim.  
  
“Your  _enormous cock_ ,” snaps McCoy. “Have you seen it? Have you even got zoning clearance for that thing?”  
  
Jim makes a noise like he can’t decide whether to laugh or pretend to get offended. “Do you want me to fuck you?”  
  
“Yes,” says McCoy. He thinks his voice comes out a little exasperated.   
  
“Then relax. We’ll get there.”   
  
“Before or after I  _die_?” grumbles McCoy.  
  
Jim shuts him up with a wet, open-mouthed kiss, and by the time they’re both short of breath and panting, Jim’s got two slippery fingers sliding into the tight pucker of his ass, working him open with lazy, leisurely strokes. Jim has a goddamn  _technique_ , a slow glide that first sinks his fingers in to the knuckle, followed by a half-twist and a curl, then a rub of his prostate, rinse and repeat. McCoy falls into the bobbing rhythm of it, hips jerking in minute little bursts of pleasure, until he’s slack-jawed and moaning softly, and Jim presses in a third finger.   
  
“You’ve seriously got a big dick. I like dick,” McCoy mumbles, arching shamelessly into the tantalizing stretch and tug of flesh, “I like dick, Jim, but you’ve got a really goddamn big one.”  
  
Jim chuckles into his shoulder, pressing a sloppy kiss there, and says, “Hold your leg up.”  
  
McCoy obeys with syrupy-slow clumsiness, fumbling for a grip on his own knee and tugging it against his chest while Jim arranges him, tugging his ankle to the side and letting his legs fall open naturally. “That’s it,” murmurs Jim, ducking his straw-coloured head down as he regains his balance, thick brows furrowing. His nose creases just above the bridge, and McCoy is mesmerized by his tongue, catching on his chapped red lips.   
  
The shift is to help McCoy accommodate another finger. He’s never needed more than four and he grunts at vulnerable stretch and mild burn of taxed muscles, Jim’s expression one of utmost concentration as he presses his fingertips together and widens his fingers.   
  
“God almighty,” babbles McCoy, hips humping up mindlessly. He’d been propping himself up on one elbow to get a better look at Jim, he loves watching Jim, but he wobbles and loses his balance, tipping himself onto his back and rolling his head, staring at the ceiling instead of Jim and his own erection. He blinks, sweat damp on his forehead and clumping his hair, while Jim continues, adding lube and forcing him to take more, sliding unyielding fingers in and out, rubbing and pressing into the slick wet heat of his ass.   
  
Then he folds in his thumb, deliberately strokes his prostate, and pushes in all five fingers up to the knuckle.   
  
That’s all McCoy needs to come harder than he ever has in his  _life_.   
  
A completely embarrassing noise comparable to a strangled squeak escapes his throat and he grinds down on Jim’s fingers, toes curling and body shuddering as his orgasm sparks into life and ignites his nerves.  
  
“Fuck,” he whispers when he can speak again, limp against the mattress. Jim’s still buried five fingers deep inside his ass, and McCoy clenches reflexively, groaning at the unrelenting pressure of fullness. “Jim, please. That’s good, that’s fine, just fuck me already.”  
  
Jim hushes him with a sound kiss on McCoy’s swollen lips, nuzzling and nosing all over his face, brushing his hair out of his eyes, eyelashes tickling McCoy’s cheeks. “I want you loose,” says Jim in low, heated voice. He nips at McCoy’s earlobe, tugging sharply until McCoy makes a tiny uncomfortable noise. “Wet and open and so slick with lube, so I can pull you into my lap and sit you on my cock and all you’ll need is gravity to get me inside you.”  
  
McCoy whimpers helplessly. What does anyone say to that but  _yes_? “Yeah,” he rasps. “Yeah, okay.”  
  
When Jim slides his hand out of his ass, McCoy can’t help his bereft cry, leaving him empty and aching, but there is the slick sound of fumbling and then Jim’s hand is pressing back with more lube, sliding in frictionless and smooth. The rocking tidal rhythm resumes, push-pull, in and out, McCoy’s vision fuzzing in and out like bad reception, his skull alive and humming.   
  
By the time Jim is satisfied with the preparation, McCoy is writhing on his hand, thoroughly unravelled and tattered around the edges. The mindless rush of need that overwhelms his senses with every stroke is becoming intolerable; he can’t actually stop making desperate, mewling noises, begging for more than Jim is physically able to give.   
  
He comes all over himself for the second time when his ass swallows Jim’s thumb and he’s left wrecked and shuddering on the lube- and come-smeared bedclothes, his throat working as he remembers how to breathe.   
  
Jim gives him a minute to recover and then he smacks McCoy’s ass with a sticky palm and gently tugs his hand free.   
  
“Ohhhh god,” moans McCoy, genuinely panicked at the loss. He reaches out blindly for Jim. “No, no no no, come back.”  
  
“Easy,” says Jim, pulling back from where he’s ended up bent over McCoy, pinning him to the sheets. “C’mon. Remember what I said? Get in my lap, Bones.”  
  
“Fuck.  _Fuck_.” McCoy flails at him, limbs wobbly and weak. He huffs irritably, gets up on one elbow, and lets his legs ease down from where they’re hiked up loosely around Jim’s hips. His thigh muscles twinge.  
  
Jim wraps his hands around McCoy’s wrists and pulls him to his knees, his body swaying from side to side. “Turn around,” commands Jim.   
  
McCoy tries. It’s about 20% him and 80% Jim in terms of energy output, but he ends up successfully kneeling away from Jim, leaning against the sleek lines of his angular body, the thick, blunt head of his erection pressing against the slick crease of his ass. He wriggles, trying to force Jim to get closer, but Jim splays a hand between them, keeping him from moving. “Stop. Spread your legs.”   
  
Words feel thick in his mouth, so he doesn’t use them, just shifts obediently, widening the stance of his knees, and when Jim stretches out on his back beside him, he  _does_  remember what Jim wanted. He knows what to do when Jim pats his ass, manages to straddle him backwards without falling over, and then Jim’s reassuringly capable hands descend on his hips, and his cock is nudging his opening again, so Bones relaxes his trembling legs and sinks down onto him with no resistance at all, a grand sweep of hard flesh, filling and stretching him with exquisite heat and deep, throbbing pressure.   
  
It’s too much, in the sense that it’s exactly enough, just the right stress on his limits. When the curve of his ass means the sharp jut of Jim’s hips, he gives himself a moment, bending at the waist and planting his hands on Jim’s thighs, staring down at Jim’s bony knees.   
  
Jim’s hand is at his back, rubbing circles, and then his voice is tickling his senses, that low, commanding tone that makes his spent cock twitch hopefully and his face flush with heat. “Fuck yourself on me.”  
  
McCoy whines. He hasn’t got the strength for this, for anything but sitting on Jim’s cock and simply enjoying the thick jut of smooth flesh inside him. But he tries anyway, bracing himself on Jim’s knee when he raises it helpfully, and rocking his hips up and then swinging down again, groaning thickly. It’s only three strokes before his legs refuse to lift him further, McCoy panting with exertion, sweat winding down the tips of his curling hair; he’s hyper-conscious of the droplet on the tip of his nose, the one sliding around the swell of his ass, another trickling into the dip of his elbow.  
  
When he goes still, his breath rasping in his ears, Jim wraps one arm around McCoy’s waist, his palm spread over his sternum, levers himself up with his free hand, and, in a movement too deft for McCoy to track, he manages to throw McCoy face-down onto the mattress and flatten him there with his body without having to pull his cock free from McCoy’s ass.   
  
They land with a simultaneous grunt and then Jim huffs a laugh, swings back his hips, and nails him with a hard thrust that makes McCoy  _yowl_ , gripping the sheets with white-knuckled fists, his own hips bucking uncontrollably forward.   
  
Jim’s practically a blanket, heavy and solid along McCoy’s back and pinning his arms and legs, his restraining arm tucked around his chest to keep him snug and close.   
  
“Get comfortable,” murmurs Jim, kissing the shell of his ear.   
  
“What—” gasps McCoy, and then moans as Jim starts to fluidly roll his hips in long, easy, deep strokes that drive into McCoy’s very core, fucking him wide open. He scrabbles at the bed-sheets, trying to draw a knee up for leverage, because like this he can’t meet any of Jim’s thrusts, can only lie beneath him and take what he’s being given, but Jim doesn’t loosen his grip, doesn’t seem to want to relinquish control.   
  
“Stay,” he breathes in McCoy’s ear, voice firm, and McCoy shudders and moans, going limp.  
  
“You prick. You’re not  _always_  in the captain’s chair, goddammit.”  
  
Jim just hums, overlaying his cheerful, tune-less voice with the obscene squelch of lubricant and yielding flesh, muffled wet slaps as Jim’s cock sinks in and out of him in a perfectly timed pattern of movement. The burn has long since been overcome by a sweet flare of muted pleasure, sleepy and warm in the face of the two orgasms that have already been wrenched out of him and concentrated on the pleasant stretch of being stuffed so achingly full.  
  
“Jim,” he whispers, squirming uselessly. “Jim, there is no way I can come again. You can’t just apply your superhuman stamina to us normal folk and assume it’s anywhere near on par.”  
  
“Relax,” murmurs Jim, angling for McCoy’s prostate. “We’ve got all night.”  
  
McCoy lets out a strangled whimper and presses his face into the mattress. Jim continues to take his goddamn time, his stubborn pace firmly fixed somewhere between ‘leisurely reaming’ and ‘sex purgatory.’  
  
Something happens to him in the interim, something ridiculous and mildly humiliating, because ten minutes later, when Jim is still patiently fucking into him with his stupid giant cock like it’s no effort at all, McCoy has completely lost any and all shreds of dignity that might have still been hanging around. The tiny unfamiliar sounds coming out of his throat are sobs, watery and incoherent, like he’s so aroused he might fucking  _cry_ , because it’s not like he’ll get relief any other way.   
  
“Please,” he begs, desperation written into every line of his body. “Please, Jim, please, I can’t, you can’t— _please_!”  
  
“Didn’t think you could come again,” Jim teases.   
  
“I  _can_ ,” he cries. “Jesus Christ, you insufferable piece of shit, I need to, I can, please, if you’d just fucking  _let_  me.”  
  
Jim doesn’t reply, just rises up on his knees, pulling McCoy’s ass up with him, and McCoy thinks he does actually cry when Jim wraps his hand around his cock, fingers all tacky with lube and semen, and starts to thrust into him like he just can’t get deep enough, like he wants to crawl inside McCoy’s skin and stay there.  
  
McCoy comes so abruptly he doesn’t have time to make a sound, body seizing with every ounce of tension that Jim spent thirty minutes patiently screwing right out of him.  
  
He blacks the fuck out.  
  
When McCoy floats to consciousness, it’s to white noise and sticky cuddles. Jim is curled around him like a giant golden retriever with a favourite toy, wrapping him up in his arms, and their skin is, in certain places, glued together with an arbitrary selection of bodily fluids. The sheets are rucked up beneath them, a detail about which neither of them seems to care enough to fix, and there are multiple wet spots laid out under their bodies like hidden booby traps.   
  
“Unh,” says McCoy.   
  
“Yeah,” mumbles Jim, his face pressed firmly to McCoy’s shoulder. “That about sums things up.”  
  
“Your giant cock,” says McCoy more clearly, “Is still in my ass.”  
  
“Huh,” says Jim, as if he didn’t already notice McCoy’s ass flexing weakly around his softening dick. “So it is.”  
  
His impressive stamina seems to have hit a wall; he shifts around half-heartedly, and McCoy reaches back to grip his hip. He manages to hit flesh on the second try, squeezing gently.   
  
“No. Stay,” he mumbles, cheeks going pink.   
  
Jim immediately stops fidgeting, scooting up even closer. McCoy’s ass twinges and he murmurs in satisfaction. As he drifts off, Jim kisses the nape of his neck, ruffling the short, soft hairs there.   
  
“G’night, Bones.”


End file.
